


"Scared, Potter?"

by somewhere_out_there



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:28:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25784398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhere_out_there/pseuds/somewhere_out_there
Summary: "You wish."
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 115





	"Scared, Potter?"

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments and/or criticism are greatly appreciated!

“Scared, Potter?”  
  
The first game of the year, Gryffindor versus Slytherin. The opposing seekers: Potter and Malfoy. The Slytherin team each grasping the newest broom, the fastest model yet. Malfoy’s eyes are alight with malice, taunting sneer in place. The sight fills Harry with a raging fury. No way is he letting the slimy bastard catch the snitch first.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
Wands raised, standing on opposite sides of the Great Hall. A determined glint in each of their eyes. Losing this duel means losing pride and risking humiliation in front of the entire school. Lockhart looks delighted by how seriously they are taking his dueling club.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
It’s 20 minutes before the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. At this point, Harry just wants to get it over with. He doesn’t even care if he wins. Malfoy’s hair is severely slicked back, as usual, and a “Potter Stinks” badge adorns his cloak. Ron, who’d been with Harry for moral support, glares at him, then turns to wish Harry good luck, heading to the spectator stands.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
The fifth years are standing outside of Flitwick’s classroom, waiting to be called in for their Charms O.W.L.s. Beside him, Hermione is frantically muttering, reviewing her Transfigurations notes, having already completed the Charms practical. Harry is decent enough at Charms. Not as good as Malfoy, of course, but he would never tell him that.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
Malfoy’s face is gaunt and pale when he slips into the dungeon. He stands in front of Harry’s cell, studying his disfigured face, courtesy of Hermione’s clever stinging hex. His gaze slides over to Ron, who has been thrown in the same cell. A minute passes before he speaks. His gaze is stony and expressionless when he informs them that he has briefly frozen the Manor’s wards to let them disapparate, and that Dobby has agreed to get Hermione out. While Harry and Ron are busy gaping at him and wondering if he’s been hit with a Confundus, he unlocks the cell and slips them their wands. Their eyes meet, and although Harry can hardly believe what he has just been told, it is their best chance out. Malfoy gives them a brief nod, and turns on his heel to exit the dungeon.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
Azkaban clearly did not agree with Malfoy’s complexion. He is even thinner and his eye circles are even more defined. He’d spent three months there, awaiting trial, which Harry thinks is a bit harsh, considering how he’d helped them at the Manor. Malfoy’s voice is lacking the usual bite, and Harry thinks that the words were spoken out of habit, rather than an actual need to provoke him. No matter. Harry just wants to testify for him and then leave, the last of the Death Eater trials finished.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
The eighth years, sitting in a circle, surrounding an empty Firewhiskey bottle lying on its side. One end pointing to Harry. The other to Draco. Draco’s voice is as cocky as ever as he crawls across the circle, but uncertainty and nervousness still flicker in his eyes. It is this sign of unsurety, proof that this really does matter to him, that smooths away any worries Harry has. He locks eyes with Draco. His voice is even and measured, calm composure only betrayed by lust blown eyes. He leans forward.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
Harry’s wand is securely grasped in his hand, and he resists the urge to jiggle his leg as they wait for the order to charge the house. They’ve been chasing the suspect for weeks now, and they have finally unearthed the location of the safehouse. Countless hours of cross-referencing records and pulling all-nighters has finally paid off. The signal sounds, and he blasts the door off its hinges. He doesn’t need to look back to know that Draco is covering his back, wand raised, all traces of mirth wiped off his face. His ability to stay stoic and unaffected by his emotions perfectly balances out Harry’s rash decision-making, which is usually highly affected by his “bloody hero complex” (Draco’s words, not his). It’s only part of the reason they have the highest success rate, and why Kingsley doesn’t complain when they deviate slightly from the standard auror procedure.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
Draco is crazy. Harry stares disbelievingly down at the grassy plain, and is torn between smiling and running for his life (and his sanity). Only Draco would think hang gliding to be an appropriate first date. But then he takes in the rolling fields and bursting flowers scattered across them, the faint line of mountains in the distance, the way the rising sun slowly illuminates Draco’s face, bathing him in light and making him look like an angel. Harry’s angel. And he supposes it’s alright, and that he’ll just have to put up with Draco’s insanity, because—who is he kidding? They’ve never been normal anyway.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
Draco’s pale hair, matted with sweat, spread out onto the pillow. Hooded eyes and kiss-bruised lips. Lithe muscles, the luscious handfuls of his sinful arse. Draco’s legs are spread indecently wide, and his obscene moans and pleading eyes are practically begging for Harry to take him. Draco’s body is pliant and submissive, and Harry wants to just ruin him, tease him until he just falls apart under him. Wants to completely debauch him and leave him a quivering pile of need. But there will be plenty of time later. Right now, Harry has to focus on making Draco’s first time a time he’ll never forget. Right now, he is almost completely inside Draco, and Draco has just told him to move the final inch. Slowly, Harry pushes in, right to the hilt, finally bottoming out. The tightness of Draco’s arse is heaven, and he has to fight to stop from coming right there, on the spot. Draco is impatient now, telling him to hurry up and move already. But the sharp words are soon cut off by a desperate, keening cry, Draco arching off the bed as Harry abruptly pulls out and slams straight into Draco’s prostate, dead on. Draco is now whimpering, tearful eyes turning toward Harry, pride completely forgotten as he begs for more. Harry smirks down at his lover, sucks a nipple into his mouth, and pounds into his arse again.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
Really, Draco’s the one who looks scared. He’d disappeared into the closet for an hour, and Harry knew he’d gone through a dozen suits before stomping out. It had been quite endearing, really, the amount of effort he’d put into it. In the end, Harry had managed to convince him to just wear a knit sweater and the trousers that perfectly matched his eyes. Now, standing at the doorstep of the Burrow, clutching a bottle of wine, Draco is the most nervous Harry’s ever seen him. Not even Harry meeting Narcissa had seemed to produce this effect on him. The thought that this means so much to Draco, that he’s come so far from his school-day prejudice, warms his heart. Harry slips an arm around his waist and presses a kiss to the side of Draco’s head, assuring him that everything will be fine. And his words are confirmed as soon as the door swings open and Molly Weasley, beaming, wraps them both in a hug.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
Dressed in complementing robes, Harry’s heart is pounding. The soft hubbub of the guests sounds a thousand times magnified in his ears. He shoots a nervous smile at Draco, whose lips quirk a bit in return. Harry looks down at his shaking hands, and turns away to go find yet another calming draught, when a warm hand slips into his own. Draco stares resolutely ahead, still not used to showing open affection. This doesn’t stop him from rubbing his thumb over Harry’s calloused skin, his soft touch smoothing over Harry’s hand until the shaking subsides. Harry glances at their intertwined hands and feels his heart flutter at the sight of the single platinum band on Draco’s left hand. He had almost driven Ron crazy when he’d dragged him along to help him find the perfect ring. But he’d made the right choice, if Draco’s constant, not-so-secretive glances at it and his shy smile every time he saw it were any indication. And then Harry knows that they will be alright, as long as they have each other. This time, the smile he gives Draco is genuine. The doors swing open. And, hand in hand, they walk down the most important aisle of their lives together.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
Draco has never looked more beautiful. Face smudged with dirt, robes stained with blood, hair a tousled mess. His expression is fierce, and Harry is filled with a rush of love. How is it that, even though they’ve already been married for seven years, he still manages to love this man a little more every day? It had seemed impossible to fit any more love into his heart, but Harry gets proven wrong again and again, each time he looks at the one person who means the most to him. Now, with the flames leaping around them, throwing light and shadow across Draco’s face, Harry pulls him close. He looks straight into Draco’s eyes and, with all the conviction he can muster, tells him he loves him. Draco’s eyes go soft, and they are filled with so much love that Harry cannot help but fall for him all over again. And this time, when their lips meet, they do not close their eyes. Instead, the world falls away until it is only emerald on gunmetal grey. Draco’s face is filled with such adoration and affection when he tells Harry that he loves him too, that Harry’s breath catches. The intensity of his expression and the utter gentleness with which the words are spoken, the familiar comfort of Draco’s arms around him, the way he looks at Harry like he is his everything. Harry’s heart breaks just a little as he stares at his love, utterly breathtaking with tears in his eyes but a smile on his lips. Harry squeezes him tight and pours his heart, his soul, his very being into the kiss. And he can feel Draco giving his own soul right back to him.  
It seems fitting, the Fiendfyre. Their love has always been an explosive and passionate one. Raging fights and earth-shattering sex and the utmost devotion. Being with Draco is an exhilarating adventure, the forging of a rock-solid bond. Harry wouldn’t have changed it for the world. And so it is with Draco, his witty, strong, _beautiful_ Draco’s soft eyes gazing into his own that the flames close in on them. But Harry doesn’t feel it at all, not when Draco’s love burns so much stronger, electrifying his senses, lighting his whole body on fire, and melting his heart all at once.  
Their ashes drift away in the wind.  
  
“You wish.”

  
  


“Scared, Potter?”  
  
Ron scoops the soft soil back into place, covering the last of the narcissus seeds. Beside him, Hermione kneels on the ground as well, her tears splattering onto the dirt covering the lily seeds in front of the second grave. Neither headstone bears a name or a date. Instead, inscribed on each one is a different quote, each made up of two, seemingly random words. With watery eyes, Ron stands, helps Hermione up, and wraps his arm around his wife. They gaze down at the two headstones. Hermione gives him a tearful smile, and they exit the graveyard. Along the way, a rose petal flutters away from the bouquet they’d placed on James and Lily Potter’s grave earlier that day. As they reach the edge of the graveyard, Ron looks back one more time. His lips twitch up in a rueful smile as he looks back at Harry’s grave. Really, one would have thought The Boy Who Lived would have had a more memorable headstone. But even as the thought slips into his mind, he knows that nothing would ever be more true to Harry’s memory than what had already been engraved.  
  
“You wish.”


End file.
